MUM - Marmalade fires
Research has shown that whether you like it or not, you can't help but be inspired by your surroundings. Of course how you express this is another matter, but when it comes to music, the best have always worn their local team's colours with pride by infusing their songs with the spirit and shape of their homes. Be it the angular and brash punk of an angry, dirty and political London in the late seventies, or the kitchen sink melodrama of the moors in Smithsonian Manchester, the music you make is like a passport.
The cold, timbered reaches of the Scandinavian landscape have clearly had their effect on Mum, coming back from Iceland with more than just frozen peas. The twinkling picks of harp and drone of lush synths sound like they are heralding the entrance of some kind of pixies from the forest. A simple two chord premise of a song becomes slowly layered with a wealth of instruments and electronic beepery, all arriving in turn somehow softer, warmer and more comforting than their predecessor. As the brass joins the party halfway through, you are transported into a bizarre wintry and christmassy fantasy than will have you reaching for that bottle of hallucinogenic reindeer urine quicker than you can say "Sigur who?".
A truly gorgeous moan of orchestral strings at the end signifies the departure of the forest sprites and returns you to reality more than slightly spellbound. Whether a full album of this would be tiresome I don't know, but this is beautiful and enchanting taster of a magical place and band.